


Limbo

by kehlee



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternative Perspective, First Dates, First Kiss, I'll probably add more tags as this progresses lmao, Introspection, M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kehlee/pseuds/kehlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a place in between kissing and dating; there's a place between heaven and hell. This is it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exposition

Spencer was eighteen when he first read the word 'bisexual'. It was an instant moment of self-awareness, like when something finally fits and everything clicks into place, like nothing was ever lost in the first place. He stood from his desk, and he may as well have shouted 'eureka' like the hypothetical Archimedes did in literature (and this claim is actually thanks to Roman writer Vitruvius's ninth book of architecture in which he described the tale of the scientist leaping from a public bath, stark naked and screaming 'Eureka! I have found it!' the whole way home. Definitely untrue, because the volumetric method only works in theory-- even Galileo disproved the theory of volumetrics with his La Bilacetta experiment which--).

He was eighteen, and he had felt as if he was seconds from finishing his PhD in mathematics for the past four months. He had also felt insurmountable guilt crippling him following the hospitalization of his mother (his fault, his fault, but it was what was best) and would write daily. Between finishing his dissertation and writing letters and actually attempting to whip himself into shape-- sleeping, eating, you know-- he was falling short in most aspects of his life. There was no time for girls or parties, and he had no particular interest in joining the evenings of fun that other kids his age were interested in. On occasion, he'd receive an invitation from somebody-nobody from his hometown, mentioning a party or a night out. He'd decline each time.

But he didn't spend the entirety of his life sitting in his cramped-up dormitory, complete with tiny loft bed and tinier desk, that even his scrawny legs would not quite fit under. Armed with a tiny reading lamp and a tiny coffee maker, he would spend days-and-nights-and-days-and-nights working, then take off a day to sleep, then a day to visit a coffee shop or snag some Indian food. In particular, a certain young man who waited tables at the local Indian joint near campus that served abysmal coffee and phenomenal chicken tandoori.

The young man's name was Krishna, and when the evening light shone through the tall front window, the gold would caress his jawline and Spencer would stare just a little too long. He was tall, built well, always dressed in jeans and a buttoned shirt with a collar, sometimes a hooded jacket over that. Krishna always smelled of something indescribably strong and pungent, but he truly was beautiful. And they talked, too, frequently and flashing sweet smiles at each other over cups of tea and coffee.

If he chose to visit the coffee shop, there was a woman there named Laura, with long blonde hair that fell down her back like smiling sunshine on a summer day. Spencer bought her pastries, and she would snack on them while he sat and worked and sipped slow, warm coffee. With 'eight pounds of sugar', Laura always joked in a sing-song voice that was smooth and rich.

It was conflicting at best. There were some days he would visit both shops in one day, and then return home and completely distract himself from any questions that would bubble up from the pit of his stomach like boiling water in a pot. Instead of questioning anything about himself, instead of letting himself worry about his mother, locked away somewhere-- no, institutionalized, he'd remind himself-- he would just work. Work, work, work.

\--

“Reid,” Hotch pages from his office, jutting Reid out of his introspective, nostalgic mood. Reid hops to his feet, standing to walk towards Hotch's office with his shoulders slung back, confidently. Though he's been sat there the past minutes, just revisiting old memories over and over, he suddenly feels a sense of equilibrium when he enters the office.

“What is it?” he asks, knitting his brows together.

Hotch's eyes fall from the papers on his desk back up to him, but never lacking in an ounce of confidence. “The paperwork,” he starts, his lips thin and pressed like his tie against his chest, “from last week's case. You never finished it.”

Reid falters. “I was just working on it.” He lets his stupidly lanky hands fall to his side, and meets the eyes of his team leader. Brown. So brown. So incredibly brown.

“It was supposed to be finished by Monday. It's Thursday.” He pauses, and there's a beat of silence shared softly between the two of them as something tense melts into a gentler pillowy feeling. “Are you alright?”

“Of course!” He answers quickly. Almost too quickly, and if Reid considers it almost too quick, then Hotch knows for certain that he doesn't mean it. Rehearsed. They all vowed to not profile each other, but it happens on the daily. Reid knows. Reid does it.

Hotch lets out a nasal sigh, and flips a folder over on the table. “Reid,” he presses.

“I'm really fine.”

But he's sure that Hotch knows already that it's come back-- the migraine and the leg pain and the mind pain that surges through his body and just reminds him that no matter how much coffee, how much information, how many books and movies and stories and ideas he consumes, he is still a human just as much, and hiding behind the wicker basket shield of intellect cannot save him from himself.

But he won't talk. He can't talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thanks to my good friend Steph (aokurokagas on tumblr.com) for helping me come up with a title. this fic is currently unfinished but i have at least the next five or so chapters ready to go and will post them each time i write something new, so that i'll always be a bit ahead of myself and not lose my mind. this is my first chapter fic... so bear with me! and thanks in advance for reading. :) i love y'all lots!!!


	2. Brief

He was one of those kids who fit into all the groups, but not enough to feel safe. Aaron Hotchner blurred the lines between nerd and jock. He never really had one best friend. He never really wanted to get close to anybody, he never thought that he could. Each weird corner of him fit in with another group, but never quite right. He collected quarters, but none of the nerdy collector's crowd found him legitimate. He tried theatre, just to get closer to one girl, and it seemed to go nowhere. He played baseball, tried track, everything. Never quite fit in.

But he didn't mind. He had a few people that he could talk to if he needed, he had a few friends to goof around with. His role as Pirate Number Three was short lived but fun-spirited. He was a goofy kid, and he would have good-hearted jests with his baseball team when they would get pizza on the way home from an away game. Aaron never worried.

Nobody knew him. He spent time in the library and he spent time in the gym jogging, trying to be normal and good enough. If he had to describe his time at boarding school, he would just shrug. Call it fine. It was his father's idea... everything in their household was his father's idea. His mother was the kind to sit idly by, sewing pants back together. There was no need to talk about home-- in fact, people who knew him didn't know a single thing about his home life.

He dated one girl in high school, a sweet girl named Jessica who was pretty smart and pretty normal, with a normal beautiful smile and normal beautiful knowledge. Of course Aaron found her attractive, but they never went much further than sloppy kissing. He never could. Jessica would whisper sweetly to him, ask him if everything was okay, and he'd just shrug it off. Always shrugging everything personal off like an itchy woolen sweater that was just too big around the elbows. Caring too much about school work. Overcompensating.

–

He watches Reid work on the paperwork and massage his temples through his office window, the panels of the blinds pulled just right to let him see out but have other not see too much in. Reid bends over his desk, hunched weirdly over it, and Hotch wonders if maybe he's got scoliosis or some other back problem. He thinks about maybe buying him a gift card to a massage therapist, and then reminds himself that it would be too odd to do that. Anyway, he would rather...

But that's not what to think about right now, he tells himself, aggressively tip-tapping something into his computer in front of him when he's interrupted from his particularly turbulent thought.

“Sir,” J.J.'s voice weaves through the drafty air, “I've selected our case. Can you call a meeting? I'll brief everybody.”

Hotch offers a small, thin-lipped, miniscule smile in response and turns the monitor of the desktop off. “Of course. Tell Reid the paperwork can wait until next Sunday.”

“Why Reid?” she pipes up, just as he figured she would. It is frustrating nonetheless.

“Just because,” is all he answers, and then escorts her out of the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

Sometimes it still catches him off guard, the picture of Jack. It's not Jack that catches him, it's his smiling mother and his happy father standing beside him, both of their arms around their son's back. They look normal. She certainly doesn't look like she could possibly be gone. He always tries to press the voice that reminds him whose fault that is into the back of his head. Some days, he wins.

Today is not looking incredibly lucky, because when he sees the first photograph of a blonde girl, dead, all he can think of is her. Sometimes, it's difficult to say her name. Sometimes, he can still imagine her standing behind him and speaking his thoughts aloud. Something about his feelings. Something about Reid. It's something he shoves down and away.

He's carried this particular manifesto close to his heart, that his work and personal life were two separate entities that could exist at the same time. It works better than others some days. When he gets drinks with the team, he spends more time talking with one person.

“Hotch?” Morgan is asking from across the room. He's missed the entire briefing.

Hotch clears his throat, shifts in his seat. “What were you saying?”

They pass around theories about the killings and the torture and all the sick, sick men in this world who can't just have their cake and eat it.

And Reid... he looks lovely today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp it's coming along slowly. i've decided there will definitely be some fun sexy times in store in the future which is exciting... for now i'll leave you guys wondering i suppose. feedback would be much appreciated :)


	3. Questions

They had met before. Spencer, at the ripe age of twenty-three, joining the bureau and coming face-to-face with a man he recognized. It was odder than de ja vu, it was more certain. He knew that he knew the man, because he was certain their paths had crossed. That was the thing about Spencer: he never forgot, and here he was, forgetting. He had three PhDs and couldn't recall where he'd seen this man before, all tall and suit and tie and fancy. He looked like the sort of guy who would order lobster at a nice restaurant, not because he wanted to impress or look rich, but because he genuinely liked it.

And he'd seen him before. Whether it had been when Spencer had worked at the campus library or the book store four miles from campus that they had met, he recognized him. He couldn't remember a name, a conversation, a situation, but he could recall the face. And why?

Spencer had been offered the job at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. He never applied and never had to sit with crossed fingers; the FBI requested he send his credentials just for the sake of formal paperwork and so he did. He had never felt so certain in a job, never felt so sure he would fit in and work effectively in a group before. It was always him who pulled group projects, always him who tugged at academic relationship dynamics, and now he was being put in a room of people better at something than him.

He would call it refreshing. It felt better to know he was being challenged on the daily by puzzles that only the best brains could understand. They introduced themselves to him. Jennifer Jareau, blonde and with that sparkle of youth in her, paired with a strong intellect. She specialized in media. Jason Gideon, a smart man with a balding head and an aging face, probably had been doing the same job for years. Penelope Garcia, real spunky, her own unique kind of tech-y smart that he didn't completely understand. Derek Morgan, young and fit and practical. Then there was Aaron Hotchner. Deep brown hair and dark brown eyes and seemed to be somewhere between young and old. Late thirties. He'd seen him before.

After the first few cases, he had to remind himself that he'd probably just met Aaron Hotchner in a coffee shop somewhere or bumped into him getting on a bus. After the first few cases, his heart got a little thinner. He wrote his mother, telling her stories of the criminals they caught and even the ones they didn't. He mentioned Aaron Hotchner in passing... but spent most of his waking hours confused. Trying to figure out just what it was.

A puzzle he couldn't put together.

–

It's a particularly turbulent plane ride. Hotch is sitting, reading the file folders. Stupid manilla contrasting his skin. Reid tries so hard not to look so closely at him, but he never really makes it past the 'don't' in 'don't look at him' before he's just flat out staring. He never would have guessed that Morgan would be the one to pat his arm, and speak.

“Reid. Let's talk.”

They're sitting alone, far away from the rest of the group and so he just thins his lips, drops his gaze and nods before meeting his eyes again. “Sure,” Reid answers. “What about?”

Morgan shakes his head. “I think you know what about.” Reid lets all his excuses surface, about the headaches and the leg aches, a fake reason like he forgot his pills and so his headache is worse (he took five pills and it did not help) or that maybe he just knocked his leg weird on a table.

“I took a pill this morning, I'm fine,” he answers.

“No,” Morgan presses, pressing his hand to his temple. “What's up with you and Hotch?”

Reid falters, blinking a few times in surprise. “There's... nothing up with me and Hotch.”

Morgan lets out a sigh, flipping open a case file. Probably pretending to be talking about the case, but Reid is pretty sure that J.J. is eavesdropping. J.J. always knows when something is going on with Reid, he doesn't really know how. Intuition, or something. “So you expect us to just ignore you staring off at him and ogling over him like a teenaged girl?”

“I don't... ogle.”

“Yes you do,” he says. “We all know that you do. I know something's up, and I know you're going to tell me what it is.” Morgan looks peeved.

“No, I'm not.” Reid remarks, with a sour edge to the tone of his voice. Morgan's attitude rubs him the wrong way, and he lets it show.

“Whatever, kid,” he answers and puts his hands up in the air in surrender, then leaves Reid to sit alone and look at his file.

Reid doesn't ogle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow the first few chapters are super boring and i'm eternally sorry for that but the pace will pick up soon i promise and i truly hope you enjoy this??? thank you guys you are all lovely


	4. Scales

When they first met, the brunette kid spent a lot of time trying to convince Aaron that they'd met before. If Aaron wasn't so insistent that they keep personal matters out of work matters, he might have even agreed. Something about the boy was familiar, friendly maybe. He spent weeks trying to figure it out, and after a while he settled it to this: he was just a friendly face.

But the thing was that he wasn't. He had unique cheekbones and a strange lanky structure that didn't look similar to anybody but himself. The kid's name was Spencer Reid, which was also somehow distinguishably unique. Aaron would go home, talk to Hayley, and all she would say is 'let it go'.

So he let it roll off his back and when he fell asleep with Hayley's arm draped over his side, he didn't let the hazel glow of Reid's eyes bother him. He let it all go. Because he didn't spend any time thinking about Spencer Reid, didn't think about his floppy, messy hair. He didn't need to wonder the reason that he never seemed to pull his tight quite tight enough. It didn't bother him.

They worked normal cases, traveled by plane. Reid was fine when they were in the air, but always seemed to hate the takeoff. He had mentioned once his mother hating plane rides. Aaron even found himself wondering if disliking planes could be genetic, and knowing how impossible that was. Somehow, Reid made him wonder impossible things.

The case they had worked on that day was about a serial rapist. It was Reid's first case involving sexual assault, and it seemed to off-put him more than serial killings. Reid remained objective, analytical, doing his best to help profile the rapist. The boy was smart, brimming with life and intelligence that was incredibly admirable. Aaron knew that when he was twenty-three, he was still in law school working his ass off, not quite understanding everything, scraping by in some aspects. But Reid always hit everything on the head of the nail, always got everything right. Or, at least, it just seemed that way.

He shoved his glasses up his nose repeatedly, like maybe he couldn't afford new ones, and all it made Aaron want to do was buy him a new pair of glasses and teach him how to properly tie a tie. The longer he watched the youngest member work, the more often he called Hayley, just to hear her beautiful voice. Her voice.

Because, after all, he was deeply in love with Hayley. Even if he could feel her patience wearing thin, even if he could sense her tiring. He loved her, and he loved his son. It wasn't that he felt guilty, it was that he felt... he felt... Aaron wasn't so good with his feelings.

He promised Reid that he was going to take him out and get a snack after work that evening, and he decided he was also going to suggest to buy him new glasses. If Reid wanted that. So far, Reid just seemed happy to be fitting in.

–

It keeps on following him. He sighs, looks up, meets his eyes. He finds his torn heart frustrated, rubbing against something rough and uncomfortable. Hotch knows that Reid is staring again, and it's not Reid's fault that the reins in his heart are pulled by emotion. He would walk over there and remind Reid that it was all a mistake, an accident, something to regret, and maybe Reid could forgive him.

But how could he? He can't bring himself to stand up because Reid looks so perfect illuminated by lamplight, talking to Morgan and smiling (even if it is fake). He can't bring himself to sit beside him because he doesn't want to hurt his fragile heart anymore than he already knows that he has.

And how interesting is it that Reid saunters towards him and takes a seat beside Hotch, all faux lively and trying to make a conversation with him. Maybe pretending to be his friend. How can they pretend to be friends after everything?

“Hotch,” he smiles softly, radiating a soft warmth with an edge of a bit too much heat. “What are you thinking about?”

Hotch lets out an audible sigh, trying to meet the gaze of somebody around the room. Like they could save him. 'Definitely not you,' he answers to himself. Like that will give him strength. “I was thinking about Jessica Duncan,” he says, shoving the crime scene photo at him. Distraction.

“You know, the way that the unsub has--”

“Remorse,” Hotch interrupts. He's not particularly interested in talking theories. “I know.”

Reid looks slightly taken aback, his brows crinkling together and his lips pressing hard together. “I-- I know you know. I just wanted to point it out.”

The atmosphere sours. Reid leaves. Just like he wanted? Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm most excited to post the next chapter that i really just want to post it now sighs dramatically. but here's another blah blah chapter. i hope i can pique more interest with the next chapter because honestly the next chapter is where things actually start happening haha. but to those who have been reading so far-- thank you so so so sooo much, you guys are the absolute best!! :D


	5. Heat, part I

They hadn't really known each other well then. Spencer certainly knew very little about the agent, with his deep dark hair and his piercing, annoyed angry eyes that could stab holes in your soul. He always figured that's part of his gimmick, his look. They promised they wouldn't profile each other, but Spencer figured that it isn't profiling if he knows that he puts up that front for a reason. It would be profiling if he knew the reason.

They weren't close, and yet Aaron Hotchner offered to take him out for dinner. They sat still with their legs dangling from the barstools and snacked on bar food pretzels and french fries. Aaron, he asked to be called, even offered to buy him a new pair of glasses, which seemed vaguely out of character, but Spencer thanked him and no-thank-you'd him because he had already ordered some to come in within the next few weeks, shipped right to his desk, but thank you very much. Aaron had been kind and Spencer had appreciated that, but it also seemed odd. Uncharacteristic.

Aaron bought him drinks. A lot of drinks. And that wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t trying to get him drunk. Spencer wasn't exactly a light-weight, but he didn't hold his liquor the best, so he figured he ought to take it easy, he ought to say a few more no-thank-yous because he didn't care to embarrass himself in front of his new boss. One of his new bosses. So there he sat, young and safe and not drinking too much. In theory.

Because as soon as Aaron ordered another drink, so did Spencer, and next thing you know, the two were laughing side by side about something odd and unrelated, something about a turtle. Spencer's cheeks were flushed just right, and he could have sworn that Aaron was looking at him, and not in a boss way.

What an absurd thought, though. That somebody could even find him vaguely attractive, and he must be wrong, then, because he was so much younger and so out of this guy's league anyway and didn't he have a wife? And so Aaron paid for their drinks, paid for their grilled chicken sliders and french fries, and they were off.

Aaron offered him a ride home, because Spencer wasn't looking too great, and anyway, better to be safe than sorry, right? They sat in the car together, staring straight ahead, silent the whole ride home like some sort of mood had soured (and what mood?). He drove with his hands tight at ten and two on the steering wheel, not even dropping a hand down in that cool and FBI agent-y way. Was this drunk thought?

But what really was drunk thought was how seemly the other man suddenly appeared. Maybe it wasn't so sudden. Maybe it had been jolts of attraction that he was filled with when he peered across the table at Aaron. Maybe it was, you know? He just looked so good in the flashes of street lights when they passed them by at no more than thirty miles per hour, but they seemed to be moving a lot faster, because when Aaron finally pulled into the parking lot outside of Spencer's apartment complex, there was a warm hand on his face and then lips on lips.

–

They land in Minneapolis late that night, and Reid's head aches so strongly that the lights on the runaway when they land fog up and prism out in odd ways that just makes him feel like he's been slammed in the head with a brick. When he stands from his seat, he must sway because Prentiss catches his arm and furrows her brows. J.J. is the one who convinces Prentiss to back off with just a glance, and somehow, it works. J.J. must know he's not feeling well.

And, just as he expected: Hotch doesn't seem to care. He doesn't really know what he expected, if he thought Hotch would come tuck him in and kiss his forehead or something illogical along those lines.

“Reid,” comes Morgan's voice from the back of the plane, rushing up to step beside him. If he wasn't about to throw up, he'd make a joke about how he Really Does Care. “Let me take you to your hotel room. You need to get some sleep.”

“Nooo...” he trails off a little, waiving his hand in front of his own face. That makes him feel dizzier. “Okay.” he agrees after a beat and a judgmental look from Morgan. Might as well indulge Morgan while he's feeling generous. It's not like Hotch is going to throw his arms into the air and scream 'I volunteer!' like Katniss in the Hunger Games, so he takes it.

And with an airy voice and slippery feet, Reid stumbles alongside Morgan back to the hotel, and Morgan takes a seat at the end of the king bed that Reid has dug his own grave in.

“How's Hotch?” Morgan asks, folding his hands in his lap and looking Reid in the eye. He doesn't seem to be messing around this time.

“Um,” Reid starts, fingering over the patterned duvet cover and allowing the ever-consuming impending doom consume him as he doesn't quite meet the other's eye, “I don't really know. I thought he'd be more talkative.” It's been so long.

Morgan draws his lips into a soft smile. “Well, pretty-boy, I can tell you this.” Then, comes the words that Reid has known to dread for so long. He prepares himself for the absolute worst message from him, something awful and soul-crushing. “Whatever it is, Hotch is over it. I don't know what happened. All I know is that he's moved on. You should too.”

It is soul-crushing. He thought he would be able to move past it once somebody said so. It's almost as if somebody's permission to move on would allow him to, but instead he sinks through a vat of despair. His eyes fall back to the patterned cover, and he closes his eyes, letting out one last sigh. “What do you know?” Reid finally manages.

“J.J. told me that you and Hotch went out for drinks a while back. That you called her real late, and sounded some type of horrible. She also told me that you mentioned a few days later that you were in...” He pauses, and taps Reid's shoulder. A soft command for him to look him in the eye. “Kid, I don't know what he did to you, good or bad. But you gotta move on now. You just gotta.”

“Thanks,” he manages, barely audible, no more than a whimper over the sound of the hissing heater warming the suspended air around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god. ohhhh god i can't believe i didn't update this for as long as i didn't... first, my musical rehearsals got super intense, then i had a huge project and a presentation then ANOTHER huge project and now i'm studying for ap exams and the sat! yikes. i'm so sorry for leaving this alone as long as i did. anyway, things are finally happening next chapter should be nice!!! i hope you guys all like it. i'm such a sucker for waiting so long to post! sorry sorry again oh gosh.... much love to you all though! if you stuck it out, thanks for sticking it out!


	6. Heat, part II

It happened fast, like a whirlwind of hot reds and pinks. The pink of Spencer's lips, the red hot as they pressed against each other, wanting to press closer and closer than they possibly could. Aaron wrapped his arms around his back, thumbing over the fabric of his dress shirt and pressing the palm of his hand flat against his back, groping the fabric up and then under. Spencer’s back was warm, his skin smooth and delicate. Spencer moving against his body, then pulling closer into him.

It warmed up the pit of his stomach, made him stir and he was threading his hands through his long, brown hair now, kissing his lips like they were an island in a sea of despair. In a way, he was that island, and Aaron clung to him more tightly than he ought to.

Spencer broke the silence after a moment, and there was a hesitant bought of laughter before they exited the car, and Aaron hesitantly reached for Spencer’s hand, thumbed over his skin for a moment before dropping it back down. He gave this sickeningly sweet smile in the street lamp, like a drop of molasses in the night sky, a sugary yellow star. The two made their way up the flights of stairs, Spencer babbling on, Aaron listening on. 

He watched as Spencer unlocked his door, absently tidied up a few things on the counter before turning back to Aaron. He felt his chest light up when Spencer turned back to him, and again, they were together, waxing and waning against each other as the moon, hands all over. The air warmed.

After a moment, Aaron moved and laid himself down on Spencer’s corduroy couch and the younger man climbed atop him (after stripping himself of his shirt, shoes, and pants) and curled his hands around his firm jawline and leaned in to kiss his lips again. He pressed against him, and Aaron felt himself weaken, felt something escape his lips between a plethora of lips on lips and Spencer’s long, gentle fingers tracing over his cheekbones and peppering kisses all along his face. His lips were gentle, and his breath smelled like honey, which was odd. 

After a moment, Spencer pulled back and laughed nervously.

\--

He knocks on his door around ten that evening, a racing pacing nervous feeling hanging suspended in the bottom of his heart. It is only ten, and Hotch figures that it would be unlike Reid to go to sleep before midnight. Well, except for the fact that Morgan had to help Reid back to his hotel room, but Hotch only figured that was because Morgan wanted to, not because Reid was incapable of getting back there himself.

The door swings open, and Reid, drowsy, answers the door. There is a look of surprise that crosses his face when he registers who it is. 

“Hotch,” he says, blinking a few times, rubbing at his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

Hotch presses his lips into a frown, opens his mouth about to speak, closes it again. Takes a step forward. “Can I come in?”

Reid hesitates, almost fearfully. “What is this about?” He finally manages, stepping closer to Hotch, almost preventing him from coming inside. 

That would make Hotch frustrated... were he not to remind himself what he’s done. So he just lets out a sigh between his lips, and shakes his head. “Nevermind, then, Reid.” 

“No-- no, I want to know why you’re here,” he speaks more firmly.

“It won’t be like last time-- I just want to talk.” Says Hotch, screwing up his face into a hopeful, pleading demeanor. He exudes an aura of almost beginning, like he needs to be let it. He hopes that will convince Reid to let him in.

“I don’t know...” Reid trails off slowly, but taking a step back from the door. “I... guess.”

Hotch steps inside, and reaches for Reid’s shoulders, pulling him closer. 

But Reid is having none of it. He shrugs him off, stepping back, biting his lower lip. It drives Hotch mad. “This is inappropriate,” he murmurs, the continues. “You said just talking. We’re... just going to talk.”

“I want to...” he starts.

“No.” Reid answers firmly, already knowing what he’s about to say. “Not now. And not like this.”

“I thought you wanted...”

Again, Reid interrupts. “No. I did. You ruined it.”

It feels like a stab in the chest, and he swallows thickly, dropping his gaze down to the floor and then wildly back up at Reid before Reid keeps talking.

“You know that Morgan and J.J. know? They all know that there’s something going on. And, frankly, they’re not on your side, you know. Morgan told me I need to get over it. I’m doing that. I’m getting over it. You can’t just-- come in my room at eleven at night and try to hook up with me again. I’m not clueless anymore. I’m not-- a baby. You can’t guilt me into anything else. You don’t get to manipulate me however you want and expect me to be here for you whenever.”

Hotch freezes, widens his eyes. “That’s what you think about me?” His voice is drowning in an inherent sorrow.

“Right now? Yes.” His anger visibly grows. “I need you to leave.”

“Reid, I--” Hotch blinks. “I really do want to talk to you--”

“Not now, Aaron." His name is laced in emotion-- hot and fiery and red. "Not for a while.” 

The door slams to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's tired, on summer holiday, and takes three months at a time to update fic??? if you guessed me you would be RIGHT. i don't understand why i'm apparently incapable of actually keeping this going at a decent pace so if you're still here congrats i don't know how you do it. this chapter starts with Fun Stuff and next chapter is the Sexe stuff if i can ever force myself to write it well. :? who knows.
> 
> thanks to everybody who's stuck around and a special thanks to water for keeping me hydrated yay


	7. Cold

They’d been heated, he’d gotten down on his knees and looked up at Aaron, who met his gaze with this indistinct cross between longing and discomfort. When his hand lingered over the button of Aaron’s suit pants, there was a moment of discord shared between the two. After a moment, Aaron shook his head, helped Spencer to his feet.

And Spencer thought that would be the end, because it felt that Aaron had completely denied even the chance of anything furthering. When the two were at eye level again, everything felt outstandingly slowed, like time had halted and then hung suspended mid-air, like a spider hung from a web. Aaron reached a hand through the cesspool of silence, rested it on Spencer’s cheek.

It was tender. It was sweet, and it felt so, so right. When their lips met again, it wasn’t like crashing waves. It was sweeter and gentler and so much more passionate than it had ever been before. It was no longer fire; it was embers that could singe. And singe like embers, they may as well have-- the two stepped in a hasty waltz towards Spencer’s bedroom, arms tangling together like webs of emotion and slowly, once they had stepped into the room, Aaron reached to unbutton his shirt at last.

Spencer stepped forward, volunteering himself for the duty, slowly undoing each shirt button before Aaron slipped it off his arms, and Spencer was left to press his lips slowly across each portion of his unclothed bodice, finally working his way down to the top of his pants, then pressing kisses against the fabric, his mouth warm and wet against the fabric over Aaron’s clothed erection, and a sigh passed from Aaron’s lips that was so warming that he did not hesitate to reach and unbutton the slacks, tug them down (and this was a moment of awkwardness in which Aaron had to step out of his shoes and socks first, making Spencer step aside for a moment). 

Finally. The two were at an equilibrium (though Spencer, in his eternal lankiness, still had on socks and Aaron did not) and Spencer’s heart began to flurry in excitement as Aaron slipped himself from his briefs and Spencer finally, slowly, knelt down, rest on his knees, and closed his mouth around him.

There was heat and movement and lots and lots of under-their-breath-groans and, finally, some things he wasn’t so certain how to deal with and that was the whole thing.

Aaron, once again, helped him to his feet, curled his index finger and thumb around his chin, and kissed him again, Spencer’s hot mouth and his clean one. At this point, Aaron was uncertain what to do next-- “I’ve never been-- never done this before, not with a guy,” he had said between breaths-- and this was the point where he was shocked. Spencer, taking initiative that was uncharacteristic of him, wrapped his arms around Aaron’s neck and tugged him down onto the bed, Aaron catching himself on top of him.

From here, Aaron craned his neck to kiss up and down his neck, his chest, his abdomen, leaving hot-sticky-splotches of red and pink carnations blooming against his pale skin. Panting breathes passed through Spencer’s now-parted lips, and Aaron again expressed his discomfort: “Spencer, I-- don’t know what I’m doing.”

To this, Spencer gave a weak smile and curved his hips up, wrapped his arms around Aaron’s shoulders again, and thrust upwards against Aaron’s thigh. In surprise at his continuing lead, Aaron decided that it was firmly time for him to make a move.  
He reached for Spencer’s wrists, then took them and pinned them beside his head, kissing his lips firmly, more roughly than before. “Leave your hands there,” he instructed, and moved his head down, sucking, stopping right above the waistline of Spencer’s boxers. They hastily and sloppily slipped them off (this was, somehow, a dual effort) and Aaron wrapped his hands around him and began to move, up-and-down. After a moment, he retracted his hand and spat into it, once, twice, and then returned to what he had been doing before. Whether it was the sight or the sensation, this sent Spencer cooing in response, his short breaths becoming gentle moans, soft and barely audible. 

It didn’t take long at all for the both of them to end up sweaty and curled up next to each other with Spencer’s body curled around Aaron’s. Spencer pressed soft kisses against the nape of Aaron’s neck and in return, Aaron tangled their fingers together.

After an hour of soft moods, they drifted off.

In the morning, before dawn, Aaron was gone. Spencer never even saw him leave.

\--

They bumped into each other three times the following day. Each time, Hotch stammered a half-hearted but shocked reply, and every time Reid just nodded. Just his head, tipping up and down, and then his eyes. Moving on.

He tells himself this: if he acts like nothing happened, Hotch doesn’t get what he wants. Or something. He’s not thinking rationally and emotions are clouding his actions and his vision. Never mind the glances from Morgan. Never mind the atmosphere the two give off when they’re together. Never mind the way their skin burns when Hotch and Reid touch each other. If he cannot see it, it simply is not there. 

The cold Minnesota spring bites at their noses when they step outside, and when the wrap up the case, the freezing spring gives them one more gift: snow. The team packed up and was ready to leave when they got the call that they’d be staying one more night because of a blizzard advisory and that tomorrow the air traffic control would re-evaluate, but it looked like they would be stuck for another twenty-four hours at the very least.

It is Morgan who decides the group should spend the night out-- “In a blizzard?” Hotch remarks, unimpressed by this idea-- and though reluctantly at first, the team agrees that a night at the bar sounds fun. Their hotel is on the outskirts of downtown Minneapolis, so the nearest bar is about ten minutes away by car. They all dress comfortably, and they roll up around nine PM.

The bar is mostly empty, spare a couple on the other side of the restaurant and a man eating alone in a corner. The group slides into barstools and sits.

For some reason, Reid is the only one who orders food. He gets a chicken sandwich and french fries and Morgan sits next to him, stealing fries from his plate when he’s not looking. Reid picks at his food, feeling awkward now being the only one eating. And, he notices, the only one not drinking. He stares at the wall, he stares at his food, doesn’t say much.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” J.J. remarks, pulling hair from her face and tilting her head. “Is something up?”

Reid shakes his head. “I’m just... my stomach is a little upset.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s upset,” Morgan jokes. There’s an edge to his words, and suddenly the atmosphere sours. The jest seems to pierce the atmosphere, and Hotch-- who is on the opposite end of the counter from Reid-- looks away. The entire group tries to move on, and their conversation is upbeat, happy, trying to be comfortable again.

After a few minutes, Reid stands up. “I’m actually really not feeling well, and I think I’m going to go back to my room--” he says hurriedly, and stands up, heading towards an exit.

“Reid!” Morgan calls from his seat. “You need to call at taxi.”

“There’s a payphone right outside, I’ll do it there.” He’s already shrugging his shoulders up his arms, and fixing a scarf tighter around his neck. 

“But you’ll have to wait outside,” J.J. remarks. Her brows are knit with worry, and for a second Reid feels a motherly vibe from her. This makes him all the more frustrated.

“It’s fine, okay? It’s fine. I’ll wait outside, and I’ll be fine. Okay?” With that, he swings the door open, and he’s outside.

The payphone is at a business next door, which is a walk across a sidewalk path and he’s there. He starts walking, but he takes a moment to look up. The snow twirls in the light of an orange streetlight, and across the street there’s a snow-covered playground. For a second, he just thinks about running over there and going down the slide, and then he shakes his head. Just because he’s like a kid with a crush doesn’t mean he’s a kid. 

He takes another step forward and for a moment, the ground feels different, so he retracts his foot. Then, he figures, he must have imagined it, and keeps on walking. After a second, he hears it-- weak ice. It cracks, and he’s falling, freezing water hitting his skin. Immediately, he takes in a huge breath, and he realizes his head’s not underwater.

“Spencer!” Someone calls, but he doesn’t process who-- his breathing kicks up and he’s breathing in and out rapidly, chest rising and falling so fast-- he’s freaking out he’s freaking out oh my God what if he dies here, in Minneapolis in a blizzard and this whole thing never gets worked out and he dies and never sees his mother or Aaron again and that’s it, that’s it that’s death and it’s over and it’s so cold, it’s so so so so cold and somehow, somehow, he manages to stand up--

Then, he feels a hand grip his upper arm, help him step away from the water, and he immediately falls, his whole weight resting on this person, arms curling around this person’s broad frame, and in an instant he realizes who it is. 

Hotch had followed him out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a HHHUUUUUUGE thank you to my close friend kristen, who gave me the inspiration to write most of this chapter and who ALSO helped look over a good majority of it. i guess it takes a village to write a fanfiction, too. 
> 
> another tremendous thank-you to those who still read this and especially to those who take time to comment-- your comments mean a great deal to me and they absolutely make my day. thank you all, so much, from my heart.
> 
> also!! i made a mix for this fanfic in hopes of getting my mojo back. here it is, if you feel so inclined to listen? http://8tracks.com/kehlee/in-limbo


	8. Inclination

He left at four thirty that morning, pulling up last night’s pants and tucking in last night’s shirt, quietly stepping out of the door. The humid summer air hit him as soon as he stepped outside, and he thumbed over the pocket of his pants, staring at a tree across the way. It was hot.

But hot days turned to cool nights. There were days in between the months when he’d feel the same way he felt that night. September, October, flew by with the fluttering of orange leaves and the sound they make when you step on them: crunching, then decaying to nothing but crumbles of what was brown leaf before.

November put a pierce in his heart and a weight on his soul. When Hayley left him, he was able to cope. When she left him for good, when she disappeared into that black veil of death, his entire being caught on fire. And over and over, his heart begged to go see Reid. Go see him. Go lay beside him. One more chance to listen to his breathing, to see his chest rise and fall comfortably and safely. 

There was nothing quite as crushing as grief, and after the denial, after the anger, after the bargaining he had depression greet him like an old friend, sling an arm around his shoulder, and drag him down and under into December. 

He sat in the same chair every night after Jack had gone to bed, and stared at the wall. Just stared. The cold had crept around him like a lead blanket, and every crevice of his body weighed down onto the freezing floor.

January gave him a message: get up. Just get the fuck up and keep moving, because it happened. It happened and there’s still nothing you can do. (From the back of his head, a small voice would call-- you could have stayed true, even in a crumbling marriage. You never should have had that evening with him. Never.)

The weekend before Valentine’s day, Aaron attended a seminar at the LGBT center about realizing your identity and coming out. When he left at the end, a woman his age asked him, “Is your kid here?” 

Before, he’d felt like this was all some misunderstanding, that he wasn’t actually gay, that he didn’t belong in an LGBT space. After all, he loved Hayley. How could he also --- have done those things to Reid? In February, he heard the word for the first time. He had heard it said aloud before-- but this time he really heard it.

Aaron Hotchner was thirty-seven when he first heard the word ‘bisexual’.

\--

There was something off to the way Reid stumbled out the door, the way he bit at his friends, the edge of upset to his voice. And, honestly, he knows he’s caused it. Hotch knows that he’s at fault here, and that if he hadn’t been a coward, if he hadn’t run away like he did... 

But now there’s nothing he can do-- he cannot go back in time, and he cannot blame himself. All he can do is follow Reid out the door (cue the looks from Morgan, which he gently ignores) and quietly make sure that he makes it to the payphone and then gets a cab, and hopefully do this all without calling any attention to himself. He thinks he might startle Reid, and that Reid won’t be receptive to anything that he would say to him, and so he stays put, snow collecting in the wool of his coat like a little icy dust.

He watches as Reid hesitates, as Reid stares blankly across the snow-covered street. The shape of his jaw, the way the streetlight tickles the edges of his snarly hair and peeks through it, illuminating it in an orange haze. The way he takes a step forward at the last...

There is the distinct sound of ice cracking and that’s when he starts running, through the snow, through the biting air. His feet move nimbly and for a moment his whole body is so light, and then Hotch is calling out his name, carelessly, the word falling from his lips like a sweet accident: “Spencer!”

He bends down, reaches his hand and helps Reid from the water, and as soon as Reid is on his feet, he falls over and throws his arms around Hotch’s shoulders, knees crumpling and his shivering body curling against Hotch.

“You’re warm,” Reid mumbles through turning-blue lips. 

He’s always been a freezing person, with ice-cold glares and a bitter glaze on his face. It’s always been below zero, he’s always been below zero-- and now here is somebody telling him he is warm and he has never been warm before. He pulls Reid closer, arms wrapping around his body and keeping him still. Keeping him safe. It’s no longer about touching him, it’s about keeping him warm, keeping him safe. He repeats the mantra: keep him safe. Keep him safe. Keep him safe.

He can only do so much in swirling snow and shrieking winds, and he remembers what was Reid had gone to do in the beginning: go back to his hotel room. 

And so Hotch keeps Reid’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, then pulls his phone from his pocket and gets an Uber driver to come. As they stand there, waiting-- Five minutes, the app promises-- Hotch re-wraps Reid in his arms, telling himself that it’s an instinct to huddle for warmth and it’s not because he loves the way Reid feels pressed up against him. 

He rubs Reid’s back, the fabric of his shirt wet and freezing, trying to keep the fabric from turning to ice. Already Reid’s long hair is frozen, snow landing and accumulating on strands of it. When the cab arrives, Hotch helps Reid into the back seat and keeps his arms wrapped around him. 

“Can you keep the air at eighty degrees?” Hotch asks the driver, and the driver obliges. He moves Reid in front of the vent before they head for the hotel. As they ride, Hotch meets Reid’s eyes. They sit there, drunk and stupid off each other’s presence, staring into each other’s eyes until they get back.

When they get back into Reid’s room, Hotch commands: “Take off your clothes.”

“What?” Reid bites.

His face flushes as he answers, sheepishly: “Wet clothes?”

“Oh,” he answers, and he starts unbuttoning his shirt and slipping the stiff, wet fabric off of his shoulders.

There is a moment where Hotch cannot do anything but stare, his pale chest cold but beautiful and-- no. He had his time to ogle and now is his time to repeat the mantra: Keep him safe. Instead, he’s heading to the bathroom and turning on the bath-tub to a mild temperature, somewhere between warm and lukewarm.

“Uh-- Hotch?” Reid calls from his room, “Is it okay if-- I just come in there?”

“Yes. Unless you’d prefer I leave.”

“That’s okay,” he says, stepping into the room. His toes are a strange yellow-gray color, and Hotch frowns at this, helping him into the slowly-filling tub. 

“You’ve got frostbite,” Hotch remarks. He downcasts his eyes to the floor, not wanting to look up at Reid. Not wanting to make him uncomfortable. 

He hears Reid shift in the water, groaning a little as he does so. “My body feels really heavy.”

Silently, Aaron reaches his hand out, resting it on the porcelain edge of the tub. When he feels the soft return of Spencer’s cold hand, something in his heart is ready to burst. There’s a moment that his chest fills with the flutter of young love’s beginning, and then it is immediately replaced by a more homely feeling, something warm and permanent and together. It is then that he finally realizes it.

He loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an endless thank-you to my close friend Kristen (uuguu.tumblr.com) who, despite never having seen Criminal Minds at all, has challenged me to write this fic even better... and for beta-ing for me! 
> 
> and, as per usual, love and thanks to those who are continuing to keep up with me and reading this still... especially if you've stuck with it since the beginning (which was, like, seven months ago. wwwelp.) i've learned a lot writing a chapter-length fic and it's given me a lot of motivation to do it again!!
> 
> so much love to all of you guys. you bring me so much joy!!


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